


Thank Your Mother for the Chicken Soup

by YumYumPM



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-13
Updated: 2014-05-13
Packaged: 2018-01-24 16:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1611281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YumYumPM/pseuds/YumYumPM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was listening to ‘The Do-It-Yourself Dreadful Affair’ the one day.  For those of you who haven’t seen this one, it’s third season.  Solo is nearly killed by a superhuman robot girl.  Napoleon who is portraying a banker is trying to get in touch with Waverly; the only person he can contact on his communicator is Illya and the innocent who have been captured by Thrush.  Before cutting off their conversation Napoleon says “And thank your mother for the chicken soup.”  Now why he says this has been bugging me for ages.  Is it code, or was it unintentional?  Anyway I couldn’t leave it alone so here we are, my improbable story behind that sentence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank Your Mother for the Chicken Soup

Somewhere in New Jersey, Illya Kuryakin was using his key to open the door on an undistinguished bungalow. Behind him, his partner, Napoleon Solo was asking, “Are you sure she won’t mind?”

Entering the house Illya assured his friend, “She likes you.” as an elderly woman rushed into the room from the kitchen.

A broad smile graced her face and the woman caught Kuryakin’s face and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks. “Welcome home, Illyushka.”

Illya enveloped his mother in a warm hug.

“You are just in time for supper and I see you’ve brought Napasha with you.” She turned and kissed her son’s dark-haired partner on the cheek as Illya made his way to the kitchen. “How are you feeling? Better, yes?” she asked anxiously.

“Much better, Mrs. Kuryakin,” Napoleon said, a sincere smile on his face as he looked fondly down upon Illya’s mother. “Thank you for the chicken soup.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said, her accent was even more pronounce than her son’s. Though short in stature, her golden hair tinged with grey, her blue eyes sparkled with delight at having her son and his friend home. “Come,” she commanded as she took Solo’s arm and led him into the kitchen, seating him at the counter near the stove.

“How long will you be able to stay?” she asked, looking over to Illya whose head was currently in the refrigerator. “Get out of there. You will spoil your appetite,” she ordered trying not to smile as she went back to her stirring.

Illya closed the door on the refrigerator with resignation and leaned against it. “Only for the weekend.”

Leaning over the counter, she offering a spoonful of the delightful concoction for Napoleon to taste. Mrs. Kuryakin said, “That is good. It has been a long time, my Illyuska. You will refrain from any hanky panky, yes?”

Napoleon almost choked as he swallowed the delight stew before turning an astonished stare to his partner.

Not noticing, Mrs. Kuryakin turned back to her stirring and gesturing with her wooden spoon she continued, “A little hugging, a little hand holding, even a little kissing. That I do not mind. Anything else though…not under my roof, please. Your poor father, God rest his soul, would never have understood.”

Illya, a gurgling sound issuing from his throat, asked, “Mama, what are you talking about?”

Mrs. Kuryakin turned to glare at her son brandishing her spoon. “It would have been nice to hear about it from my son, not from someone else,” she accused.

Sapphire blue eyes sent a startled look to astonished hazel eyes. Napoleon cleared his throat, asking as casually as he could. “Mrs. Kuryakin, where did you hear…”

Mrs. Kuryakin cut him off before he could finish. “Call me Mama. After all you are practically family,” she said as she offered Napoleon another taste from her pot. “Why from your Mr. Waverly, of course,” Mrs. Kuryakin added as she studied Napoleon’s features before turning to add more spice to the pot.

“Mr. Waverly knows?” Illya asked, his voice faint, his face pale.

“But of course. You didn’t think you could keep something like that a secret from him,” Mrs. Kuryakin answered indignantly.

Napoleon, disconcerted by the direction this conversation was taking, had to ask, “You don’t …mind?” After all, this was Illya’s mother.

Mrs. Kuryakin looked into the face of the young dark-haired man with astonishment and smiled the same sweet smile that reminded Napoleon so much of Illya’s. “How could I mind. You make my Illya happy, yes?”

Illya moved to stand behind his partner, his hand upon his lover’s shoulder. “Yes he does, Mama.”

“Then that is settled. Into the dining room, you two. Supper is ready.” Mrs. Kuryakin hustled the two men out of her kitchen. “Just remember, no hanky panky.”

The end.


End file.
